


In which Newt is shockingly oblivious

by Aethelar



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, here have something cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23774590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aethelar/pseuds/Aethelar
Summary: Full title: In which Newt is shockingly oblivious and Graves wins him over by being too much of a softie to say no to a cat
Relationships: Original Percival Graves/Newt Scamander
Comments: 22
Kudos: 402





	In which Newt is shockingly oblivious

Look, Graves is a hot guy. He’s not being conceited, he’s not being arrogant, he’s just not being blind either. He’s fit, in both senses of the word, his skin’s been clear for at least a year now, his fashion sense is cute as fuck. Queenie has reliably informed him that he made the top ten in last month’s _Best ass on campus_ poll. He’s turned three people down for dates and he’s not even finished his first term at uni yet.

So clearly, Graves is hot. Subjectively, objectively, all genders agree. This here is a fine specimen of humanity, and it even has dimples when it smiles.

“Hey,” he says, flashing the dimples in question at the cute guy from the floor below.

“Uh, morning,” the cute guy says, and walks straight past him.

Graves blinks. It’s seven in the evening. Also, what.

“Newt, right?” he tries a week later. “Queenie said you and Tina were neighbours.”

“Yeah,” Newt says, nodding absentmindedly and attempting to ingest a pencil. He starts, suddenly registering Graves’ presence, and scrambles to push his mountain of textbooks aside. “Sorry, let me - shit, sorry -”

Graves catches the mug before it meets its untimely demise on the floor. “No worries,” he says, smiling again. Full dimple and everything. He holds out his other hand for Newt to shake, angling his shoulders slightly for maximum effect. “I’m Graves, Queenie and I share physics lectures.”

The shoulders have no effect. The handshake has no effect. The bedroom eyes so bloody obvious Graves is going to need eyedrops to keep up with them have no effect.

I mean, they have an effect on _Graves_ because he’s now actually _talking_ to the guy he’s crushing on, but that’s a) a given and b) not helping.

“Your coffee’s cold,” he says in a last ditch attempt to flirt. “I’ll get you another one.”

“Uh,” Newt replies, tilting his head in owlish confusion. “It’s tea, and you don’t have to, but, thanks?”

“Tea,” Graves confirms, and pulls out his phone on the way to the counter.

_is tinas newt friend straight????_

_Newt? Zoology Newt in the room next door?_

_ye newt_

_Hang on._

_k_

_She says no. She also says she’ll spike your drink with hydrochloric acid if you hurt him and bury your remains in a rose garden for fertiliser._

_queenie your sister is not ok_

An hour and half later Graves has to go for a lecture. He’s learnt that Newt is an awkward but earnest conversationalist, that his brother sends him snapchats of the family dogs at least once a day, and that Newt fell in love with a swan when he was six years old because it knocked him over and stole an entire bag of birdseed from his pocket.

He’s also learnt that Newt is apparently immune to all flirting. No reactions. Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Maybe he should take a leaf out of the swan’s book and throw Newt to the ground, see if that got any better results.

(Not like _that_ brain we have a lecture to focus on, look _Gaussian surfaces_ aren’t they _fascinating_ fuck)

Three weeks after that and Graves is resigned. He and Newt have progressed to friends, which is delightful and makes for an easy hanging out group with Tina and Queenie - and, recently, Queenie’s new potential boyfriend - but it’s also a form of torture because Newt is _literally right there_ and Graves is _dying_ he hasn’t crushed this hard since he was fifteen and first learnt he was gay but he can’t _do anything_ about his damn crush because Newt has shown all the reciprocity of a tree. A cute, knitwear clad tree, but also a platonic and just-a-friend knitwear clad tree.

“Yes, but did you actually tell him?” Queenie presses.

He levels an unimpressed stare at her. “I walked past him in a towel on the way to the showers. He waved at me. I’m pretty certain he’s not interested.”

“Oh.” She pats his shoulder in commiseration and tips another shot of rum into his cuba libre. “Wait, aren’t your showers upstairs? How did you walk past him?”

He taps his nose - near his nose, shit, how strong are these things - and grins. “All’s fair in love and war,” he says with the sage wisdom of the truly sloshed. Then, “Queenie, it’s love and war. Queenie. Queenie I think I love him.”

“Yes,” she says. “But did you _tell_ him?”

Graves hiccoughs in sad denial and slides off his chair to lie on the floor.

Graves of the morning after, the Graves with the hangover, he kicks off the blanket Queenie had draped over him and curls into a tight ball and decides, fuck it, if Newt wants to be his friend rather than his boyfriend then Graves is going to be the _best damn friend_ Newt could ever ask for. He’s _honoured_ to be Newt’s friend because Newt is a fucking _gift._ Anyone should be honoured to be Newt’s friend. He makes the world a better place when he laughs and he loves llamas and oversized knit cardigans and he forwards the particularly cute screenshots of his dogs to Graves because he’s the _actual sweetest human being on the planet_ and fuck, Graves is so gone for this man.

One. He will allow himself one morning to mope. _Then_ he’ll be the best damn friend Newt ever had.

Moping for Graves involves old sweats, sugar in his coffee, an asmr track of rain and lightning sounds (except quiet because headache) and a run. He likes running. He gets to clear his head and zone out and not think for a while, and the back streets down to the river are quiet at this time of day. By the time he’s paused on a bench to breathe and unstick his hoody from the sweat down his back he’s seen two other people, four pigeons and a cat.

“Hey,” he says to the cat, smiling his dimple-smile at it and holding out his hand. The cat pads closer, sniffing curiously before rubbing its head against his fingers.

“Hello handsome,” he laughs, tilting to scritch behind its ears. “Aren’t you a purry one? Look at you, you’re gorgeous. Is that your tail? Yes it is, it’s your tail, the fluffiest tail and it’s all yours.”

“ _Oh,_ ” someone says softly, and Graves looks up to find Newt staring back at him with wide eyes and an absolutely _flaming_ blush.

What. Graves has been flirting for weeks. Wearing nothing but a towel for frick’s sake and _now_ Newt notices? When Graves is sweaty, hasn’t showered, not got any makeup on - oh god his hair is up in a bun isn’t it, it’s in a greasy lopsided bun please someone strike him down now _why_ did he think it was a good idea to leave his room today _._

“You like cats?” Newt says, gesturing at the tabby that Graves is still petting.

“Yeah,” Graves croaks. This is fine. He’s fine. He’s still going to be the best damn friend Newt ever had, he can survive this.

“Oh,” Newt repeats, still blushing. He sits down on the bench next to Graves and the cat leaps up between them, butting against his elbow for attention. “I like cats too,” he says and smiles up at Graves through his fringe.

“Buh,” Graves says like the intelligent and functioning person he is, and no, he’s not going to survive this. “You’re not straight,” he then announces like an absolute _tool_ and hastens to add, “I am not straight too. Either. I am neither straight. I mean, I’m gay.”

Dear god.

Newt ducks his head and runs an awkward hand through his hair. He’s paired his traditional warm knit with a black and yellow scarf and it’s adorable. The scarf is thick and tasselled and the static from it is making Newt’s curls frizz out at the back where they rub against it. This is not relevant to the story but it’s relevant to Graves’ mental state and therefore worth describing.

“I’m not straight,” he agrees. The tops of his ears are red and he has many freckles. Also relevant to Graves’ mental state. “Is this your way of asking me out?”

Graves licks his lips. The cat walks across his thighs and starts kneading at his knee with its claws. “What would you say if it was?”

“There’s a cat cafe in town,” Newt mumbles into the scarf that has now swallowed the majority of his face. Graves would think that the scarf was making him mishear, except no, his ears are so attuned to Newt right now he could pick up radio signals from Mars if Newt was the one sending them.

The cat sits, half on and half off his lap. He takes a breath. “Newt,” he says. “Will you go on a date with me to the cat cafe in town?”

“Now?” Newt squeaks.

“Uh. I’m, uh.” Wearing baggy leggings. With a messy bun. In dire need of a shower and/or an entire stick of deodorant. Graves gestures helplessly at himself and wonders if it would count against him if he pointed any of these things out. He amends the gesture to restrict itself to the cat. “She’s comfy?”

Newt somehow buries himself further in his scarf and mumbles something that sounds like _oh my god._ “Yes,” he says when he emerges. “To the date.” He darts a sideways glance at Graves and the way Graves is stroking the cat on autopilot. “I’m free whenever. And, you know, probably whenever tomorrow as well, if, if that’s a thing you also want.” He smiles, with his eyes crinkling at the corners and his hair floofed up and his scarf creeping up to cover his ears and his freckles and his face and his _cute_.

Newt is a gift and Graves is going to be the _best_ damn boyfriend he could ever ask for.


End file.
